


By the Fireside

by shambling



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Cold, First Time, Hand Jobs, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sharing a Bed, post-whispers underground, wooly jumpers are sexy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-10-13 09:01:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17485175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shambling/pseuds/shambling
Summary: If I had ever thought about getting Nightingale into my bed, it wasn't like this. Not that I was complaining per-say, but I could definitely think of a few ways it would be better.For one thing, we wouldn't both be wearing jumpers, socks and longjohns.In which the Folly has no heating, and Peter and Nightingale have to get creative, For purposes of temperature and logic, I'm imagining this to take place shortly after WUG





	By the Fireside

**Author's Note:**

> My house isn't on mains gas, and i've run out, so i'm current'y running the gauntlet of boiling a kettle to wash, and cuddling a noisy old convector heater to keep the room above freezing. Naturally, this set me to wondering how Peter and Nightingale would cope if the Folly was even colder than usual.
> 
> And then I accidentally wrote porn.

If I had ever thought about getting Nightingale into my bed, it wasn't like this. Not that I was complaining per-say, but I could definitely think of a few ways it would be better. 

For one thing, we wouldn't both be wearing jumpers, socks and longjohns. Although there was a lot to be said for Nightingale in thermals. More so than normal I could see Captain Nightingale the soldier, the layer that hid beneath Inspector Nightingale, with his good suits and dry wit. A man ready for action. 

The first time I saw Nightingale i'd had him down as a terrible cliche, beautiful, intelligent, witty, but maybe a little effete, but the more i've gotten to know him the more aware i've become that you can be good looking and witty and dress well whilst almost being terrible efficient and dangerous. Like a real life James Bond. In fact I had once, whilst drunk, described Nightingale to Lesley as "Like if James Bond had seen M and Q killed in front of him and then had to do both their jobs." She had told me to shut up and ask him on a date already, I had told her to fuck off and we'd said nothing more about my clear and evident crush. What else are friends for?

The crackling fire, combined with the gentle tick-a-tick-a of the convector heater created a backdrop of small sounds as I watched him, quietly sleeping. His face looked even more youthful in sleep, smooth and peaceful, but he still somehow gave off an air of power and alertness, as though at any moment he could spring into action. But that might have been the literal army jumper speaking. 

"Do try and sleep Peter, or this will have been entirely in vain." Said Nightingale, without even opening his eyes."Or are you still cold?" I wanted to say yes, just to see what we'd do, but instead I settled for turning on my side, to try and get more comfortable, and muttering "yes sir." He didn't say anything to that, which is just as well, because I was well aware how deeply weird it sounded.

But i'm getting ahead of myself. How had I ended up in bed with Nightingale in the first place? Not, sadly, though my powers of seduction, but by simple expedient. Doing some perfectly mundane pipe works, thames water had dug through the main gas pipeline for Russel Square, and so consequently we, like all the other buildings, had no gas for the weekend whilst they worked frantically to fix it. Contrary to what it looks like from the outside, the Folly actually only still has one fuel burning fireplace, the rest having been converted to gas in the mid 50's as part of the clean air act; and around it we had made our indoor camp. 

Nightingale had asked Molly to set up beds and she had responded, with her most blankly innocent look by moving a mattress, singular, and piling it high with blankets in front of the fire. In some ways she was right, we were going to be significantly warmer sharing body heat, but there's sharing body heat to be practical and then there's sharing body heat with your govenor for whom you may or may not have a bit of a thing already, which is in no way helped by the sight of him in thermals and an army issue jumper. 

Ever practical, he had manfullly gone to forth into the cold to change in the bathroom, leaving me to nip into tracksuit bottoms and a hoodie in front of the fire, and then returned after a polite interval, settling himself into the bed, neatly folded like a corpse in a coffin. So I had to pretend to be as absolutely unmoved as he was, which is how I came to be lying in bed, feet warmed by the fire, staring into the half dark at the edge of the blanket covering Molly where she (presumably) dozed with Toby in her arms.

I wondered if I would get any sleep for fear of having a dirty dream, or waking up cuddled around Nightingale's sleeping frame. The thought of what Seawoll, Stephanopolous or any of the others at Belgravia might say if they knew didn't make me feel any more relaxed, so I turned back onto my other side, watching Nightingale ostensibly sleeping once more. 

"Peter." He said, finally opening his eyes, "If your concern is that you might do something in sleep that you wouldn't consider doing whilst awake, then let me reassure you I have equal concerns, but had thought us both men of the world." He pushed himself up on his elbow so that we were face to face. "I can promise to be the soul of discretion Peter, I will say nothing, but I absolutely won't be able to sleep if you keep watching me, which would rather defeat the object of this entire endeavour." He sounds genuinely quite tired, and I find myself watching his mouth rather more than I intended to. "Right. Yes, of course sir." Is what I say out loud, whilst my traitorous brain considers the repercussions of just leaning in and kissing him.

"You haven't actually moved." Nightingale says, reasonably, as though we're standing in the lab or on the firing range, and not lying in bed propped up on our elbows like lovers. "Peter are you feeling quite okay?" He looks a little worried now, and I make a genuine, concerted effort to stop thinking about how warm his skin would feel. "I'm fine." I lie, to which he quirks an eyebrow. "Did you just say you wouldn't mind if I cuddled you?" is the next thing out of my mouth, which isn't entirely what I meant to say out loud. Fuck.

With a quiet groan, Nightingale flops back onto his pillow and covers hims face with both hands. "Peter Grant, you will be the absolute death of me." he mutters. Which is a cryptic statement at the best of times, and not necessarily something you want to hear in bed. "You're a human being Peter, what i'm trying to say is i'd certainly overlook something which you might do in your sleep without intent. And I might hope that you would do the same for me."  
"Of course." I reply, but my brain is still churning, a brief flash of hope existed. I lie down, and pretend to be settling. "Goodnight sir."  
"Goodnight Peter."

It's then that I get the idea. It's not my most moral idea, but it wouldn't be hurting anyone. There's every chance it would've happened anyway. I lie there in the dim firelight for long minutes, until I judge that I think Nightingale has finally fallen asleep properly this time. His breathing is slower certainly, although he's tricked me before. I sigh softly and turn, letting my arm move, so it comes to gentle, natural rest across Nightingales waist, my face within inches of pressing into his shoulder. I breathe in the smell of him, which mixes with his signare, clean linen, dust, pine and canvas, woodsmoke, and then I feel truly relaxed. Like I might actually sleep at last. I feel the most relaxed I have in a long while, since I was pulled from the earth under Baker Street. Above all else, I feel, safe.

"Peter." he says, and I freeze, all relaxed contentment going straight out of me. No acting skills me. "Peter you might've just asked." I don't respond, I don't trust myself. I keep my eyes closed, tracking his movements by the rustle of bedding, and the sensation as he turns beneath my arm, making no movement to throw it off, I note. "I couldn't." I say with my eyes still closed. "I wouldn't want to..." I trail off, I don't really know what I mean. What I want to say is, hold me or maybe kiss me "I'm sorry." Is what I say eventually, finally daring to move my arm, thinking that I can only open my eyes when I face away from him. "I'll just, but I don't get any further than that, because catches my hand in his, pulls me gently back towards him. "Peter," he says, his voice quiet, serious, "I think that maybe we both, except I could never ask, the power imbalance," So now it's my turn to stop him. My resolve tightens and I open my eyes, briefly taking in his face, looking drawn in the flickering half dark. His grey eyes are intense, and he's biting his lip a little as I throw caution to the winds and press my mouth to his, a kiss, a question. 

"I want to, if you want to." I say when we break, my eyes closed again, "and if i've read this entirely wrong then I hope that come the morning we can all pretend this never happened." In the quiet that follows, the convector heaters sound louder than ever, and I think I can hear the breathing of everyone in the room, even Molly. The moment seems to stretch out forever, before Nightingale says "Oh Peter." in a very soft voice, I open my eyes just in time to see him push me gently onto my back and kiss me with a quiet determined passion which takes my breath away. His arms are occupied, holding his weight up over me, so I slide one hand up to cup the back of his neck, which he takes as a prompt to deepen the kiss. Feeling emboldened, and more than a little turned on, I let me other hand come to a rest on his lower back. 

He responds to the gentle pressure and moves himself across, so that he's lying across me, a knee between my thighs, my knee between his. If I was aroused before, the pressure of his erection against my hip sends me the rest of the way. We lie like that for quite some time, just snogging and rutting like teenagers, fully clothed, and I can't help but wonder how long its been since he last did this. And whether he was maybe wearing that army jumper when he did. I put my hands up the back of his jumper, allowing my hands to roam across his skin, bumping up gently against old scars. He responds by sliding a hand down the front of my jogging bottoms, so that I make a slightly choked sound. "What about Molly." I whisper, pulling back from the kiss. "You've never shared a dormitory have you." It's not a question, he knows I haven't, although I have shared a section house, with its paper thin walls. "How quiet do you think you can be?" Nightingale asks, with a positively wolfish smile, as he rolls off me to lie on his side, I turn to face him, swallowing up a noise into an expression as he runs his hand firmly over the front of my boxers. 

"Good." He says, very softly, moving to pull my jogging bottoms and boxers down, I take the moment whilst he moves to pull down his own thermals in order to run my hand up the front of his jumper, which makes him shudder quite deliciously. His lips are pursed, like he's holding back a moan, and that immediately makes my mind jump to how loud I could make him be, in other circumstances. Something to consider for another time, assuming we get another time. 

He turns back to face me, so I let my hand follow the motion, skimming his side and then running down his spine to cup his arse, as he gently takes us both in hand, and I spasm, trying not to make a sound. Nightingale, for his part, makes a noise that sounds like silently breathy laughter, and skims his teeth across my exposed neck, as he begins to stroke us both, It's almost tortuously slow at first until he finds a rhythm. Then it starts to feel really, really good. The slow, building heat, coupled with his kisses, and occasional bites to my neck and jaw, has me coming apart at the seams before long. I want to do something, anything, to reciprocate, but all I can seem to do is fist my hand in his jumper, which makes him twitch appreciatively. He comes first, with a stifled hitch in his breath that I kiss away, and the sheer, silent repression of it is what times me over the edge, coming hard into his fist. 

He kisses my breath away as I do, perhaps not trusting me to be as quiet as he was, which is just as well, because I think I would've struggled. His hand stills, and I have a thought, one which is by equal turns practical and quite arousing, not that i'm sure I could go again so soon. As he starts to move his hand, I unfist mine from his jumper, capturing his wrist, I bring it up to my face, where I lick his hand clean. After all, what use hiding from Molly if she finds it on the sheets when she washes them? 

Nightingale, although I suppose I should really try to think of him more as Thomas, if we're going to keep doing this, shudders appreciatively as I lick a broad stripe across his palm, tasting out intermingled come there. It's one of those things that whenever i've done it before, has been more for other persons enjoyment than mine, and its more than worth it now. The look Nightingale, Thomas, is giving me, as I suck his last finger clean makes the bottom drop out of my stomach. He kisses me furiously after that, as though trying to capture the taste of us in my mouth, and I return to gripping onto him like a drowning man, finally exhausted. 

"We should really try and sleep now." He whispers after a while. and I find myself in full agreement. I wrap him in my arms, breathe in deeply and sigh. "Good night Thomas"  
"Goodnight Peter."

 

*

In the morning, they're still entwined. Molly smiles a self satisfied smile, stokes the fire and heads to the kitchen, to do battle with the electric hot plate they've been loaned.


End file.
